


no place for illusions now

by Dialux



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Gen, Gossiping About Family Is A Valid Career Choice, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:41:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29352873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: Finrod makes a strangled sound. He is gold upon gold upon gold: golden hair, golden skin, golden clothes. In the early morning light, he looks like something made of gilt and glitter. Galadriel rises to her feet and casts off her cloak, approaching him slowly.It’s been solong.[Galadriel returns to Aman after Sauron's final defeat. Her brother waits for her.]
Relationships: Finrod Felagund | Findaráto & Galadriel | Artanis, Galadriel | Artanis & Amarië (Tolkien)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 62





	no place for illusions now

**Author's Note:**

> No diacritics because I'm a lazy person. Otherwise, pls do enjoy the fluff!

The first person she meets upon arriving in Aman is her mother.

To be fair, Galadriel hasn’t  _ arrived  _ yet: she’s still on her boat. Earwen bears her to the deck by the simple expedient of jumping off of her own boat, and doesn’t let go until they’re almost at the docks. And after that it’s all a blur of emotion and people: Galadriel’s father holding her close, and her grandmother’s booming laugh, and Celebrian’s joyous kisses. The glitter of Olwe’s pearled throne. The tug of her mother’s fingers through her hair.

It’s past sundown before she’s finally left alone.

Galadriel reclines on her bed and looks up at the moon. It hangs low in the sky, fat and silver, encircled by the stars. Her head feels heavy: Earwen had spent time braiding Galadriel’s hair into the old braids, and it almost unbalances her- she’s spent so long letting it hang free in the Sindar style. Galadriel curls a hand over the ends of the braids tickling her ears, and then looks to the stars.

She’d forgotten how bright they could shine here. Alqualonde has never been the brightest of places, but the stars have always been beautiful. Even now, as she watches, Earendil’s star sails higher: perhaps Galadriel will meet him again, less as the boy she’d once failed to protect and more as the man who’d chosen to protect the world over. Perhaps she will meet Elwing. And- and- and-

_ Oh,  _ but the stars are lovely, and bright. So bright.

Something has been sitting inside of Galadriel, growing bit by bit: first in the cool corridors of Doriath when she first heard the news; then in the fear and fury of Durin’s kingdom, sweet, trusting Celebrimbor dead and dying; in the fierce battles for Lothlorien’s heart; in the cleansing destruction of Dol Guldur, finally, as Sauron’s spirit finally crumbled. Something has been sitting inside of her, and it is not only the braids she hasn’t worn in thousands of years. It is not only the loss of her family. It is not only the stars, shining so brilliantly.

But oh,  _ oh:  _ it is not quite far off any single one of those.

Galadriel can see the winding, glittering streets of Aman stretching out beneath Alqualonde’s stars. And who would dare do her harm here? Galadriel is amongst the most powerful of the elves in all of Aman, of that much she is certain. Even weary she can do harm that others cannot dream of.

The stars are bright, and she is safe, and if nothing else, she can feel the itch like a jagged piece of ice trapped beneath her skin.

Galadriel breathes out, and then she reaches up and undoes her braids. Leaves Nenya upon the desk- Elrond, at least, will know that she left of her own accord if she abandoned the ring. Ties a neat blanket as a cloak, letting it obscure her face. Considers going out the front door: she is old enough to simply stroll outside and not answer any objections.

But she  _ is  _ the youngest daughter of the youngest son of Finwe, and it has been far too long since she last made mischief without causing alarm.

Galadriel climbs out of the window and down the trellises. She whistles as she slips out of Alqualonde, and she doesn’t stop until well past midnight.

…

She asks a few people for directions- a weary-faced elf who looks like she wants nothing more than to sell the peaches in her cart; a father beset with four children all clamoring for a midnight snack; a dancing set of twins who’ve just reached their majority- but overall its a silent walk, and Galadriel has no desire for any companionship.

The flat plains surrounding Alqualonde give way to rolling hills. Galadriel keeps on it, head up, enjoying the cold air nipping at her heels. She has all she wishes for: fog about her ankles, the dove-soft grey of dawn, the gold hair glittering in front of the house that holds her eldest brother.

…

A younger Galadriel might have run forwards, but this one doesn’t. She’s had enough of overwhelming joy the day before. This is a time for sweet joy, rising steadily so it cannot wash away so quickly. Instead, she picks her way closer to the house on silent feet. Smiles, holds out her arms, and says, gently,  _ “Amarie.” _

Amarie, true to form, spins around, sees Galadriel, drops the basket of eggs, and shrieks.

“Ai,” says Galadriel, catching her before Amarie can jump too high and embracing her. “Well, if he hadn’t woken earlier, you certainly managed it now!”

“Who, Finrod?” Amarie sniffs, face still buried in Galadriel’s shoulder. “He can sleep through just about anything.”

“Did he ask you to call him that?” asks Galadriel, amused. 

Amarie had previously called him Ingo, and she’d refused to name him after his ataresse for even their betrothal. She pulls a face now, clearly remembering. “Oh, this is the compromise,” she says. “He accepts it because it’s the name under which he won renown, or some such nonsense.”

“What did he want to be called?”

“Nom,” says Amarie. “I refused, of course! But he kept telling me that the name would be easier to say. Fewer syllables, something about universal meaning- he wouldn’t have to translate it if ever we decided upon a different name.”

“He did  _ not  _ tell you that the name would be easier to say.”

“Well, no.” Amarie winks at her. “But he did say that it would be easier to scream in bed.”

_ “Amarie,”  _ says Galadriel, but she’s laughing.

Amarie finally giggles, and then she grabs Galadriel’s hand and guides her to sit down on the still dew-damp grass.

“I’ve missed you,” she says, with feeling. “Everyone else- well they’re so boring! Anytime I make a joke Angrod goes bright red, and Eldalote refuses to look me in the eye for a year. Orodreth  _ hides  _ from me nowadays, did you know that?”

“No,” says Galadriel, arching a mocking brow. “Proper Artaresto finds you frightening? Oh, don’t tell me that you’ve forgotten that time he panicked when he saw the Teleri dance costumes!”

Amarie snorts. “Little wonder little Finduilas went off to Vana’s halls for the first apprenticeship she got. She’s got the worst case of two left feet I’ve ever seen, but- well- if he was your father wouldn’t you?”

“And Aegnor?”

“Finrod’s told me not to speak to ickle Aiko,” says Amarie, rolling her eyes. “Apparently the last time I made fun of his choice in love- I’d  _ just  _ seen Andreth’s portrait, I’d never noticed how much she looks like your grandmother before, and it isn’t my fault that he left his sense of humor in the Helcaraxe- Aegnor went on to make Finrod’s life miserable. So. I’m on Aiko moratorium for now.”

“It’s fully deserved, and you know it, you harridan. He spent a month making moth puns, it’s enough to make anyone go insane! And I’d thought you better raised than to spend the morning bemoaning your husband to strangers. The eggs don’t collect themselves, you-”

“Well,” says Galadriel, when Finrod finally realizes who’s in front of him and stops talking. “Hello, stranger.”

Finrod makes a strangled sound. He is gold upon gold upon gold: golden hair, golden skin, golden clothes. In the early morning light, he looks like something made of gilt and glitter. Galadriel rises to her feet and casts off her cloak, approaching him slowly.

It’s been so  _ long. _

Six thousand years and more. Galadriel raises one hand and lets the backs of her fingers skim across his cheek, and Finrod makes a sound that she’s never heard before: like she’s just taken a knife to his knees. Then she’s gripping the back of his neck, and her other hand’s clutching at his shoulder, and surely it hurts him-  _ surely!-  _ but Finrod does not protest, only holds her  _ back,  _ hands warm and comforting and as callused as ever.

“I cursed you, you know,” she whispers, and he breaks away, laughing.

If the laugh is a little choked, Galadriel does him the courtesy of pretending she hasn’t heard it.

She doesn’t let him go either. She cannot, Galadriel finds. She cannot let him go, this brother who died for nothing but the oaths he’d made and the pride of his blood. This brother whose- whose cheeks must have once been withered with exhaustion and hunger, whose arms must have been far weaker, whose rage must have carried him unto slaughtering werewolves with nothing more than teeth and nails.

“When,” he asks. “After I left Nargothrond, or after my death?”

“After both,” says Galadriel, reeling him closer so she can rest her forehead upon his. “And after you left Arto to rule Nargothrond, and after Sirion burned, and after we saw Morgoth chained, and after- after Sauron fell, and for every glorious thing you let me see in Middle Earth alone without spending hours boring me with unnecessary explanations.”

He laughs again, wet, trembling. 

Galadriel swallows. “I watched Sauron die,” she says, and her eyes close, reliving that moment: Dol Guldur’s fall, and a lightness spreading over Lothlorien like a new dawn. Even Galadriel hadn’t known how bitter the dark had become until it dissipated. “I have never been gladder in my life, Ingo. Not once.”

“You’ve much to hate him for,” he says soothingly.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “But you were the first, and the greatest.”

“I did not ask for you to avenge me, little one,” he says, and sounds amused now.

Galadriel opens her eyes. Glares. “You tell me now! What am I supposed to do with the ashes of Mordor, if you won’t keep it?”

Finrod steps away, winding an arm over hers and guiding her back to the house. Amarie’s disappeared; ostensibly to allow them some privacy, but also to make breakfast if the smells are anything to go by. 

“If you can convince Amarie to put it up on the mantel, I won’t disagree,” he says finally.

Galadriel thinks back to how quickly she can make- or source- an urn, and then pack it full of ashes. Surely all ash looks alike, so the content shouldn’t be much of a difficulty. The pot will be the challenge, but not too much. 

And once she explains all of it to Amarie, her dear sister-in-law surely won’t deny her.

“You’ve got a deal,” she says, and kisses him on the cheek, and makes sure to steal the largest muffin from the batch that Amarie’s just left out to cool.

Galadriel burns her fingers, but this, after six thousand years, is only the sweetest of wounds. 

And anyhow, Finrod’s scowl over his- much- smaller muffin is enough to make the tenderness of her fingers worth it.


End file.
